The Lover (The Lover #1)

by Marguerite Duras

I’ve never written, though I thought I wrote, never loved, though I thought I loved, never done anything but wait outside the closed door.

I ask him if it’s usual to be sad, as we are. He says it’s because we’ve made love in the daytime, with the heat at its height.

It’s as if they were happy, and as if it came from outside themselves. And I have nothing like that. My mother says, This one will never be satisfied with anything.

The outrage was on the scale of God. My younger brother was immortal and they hadn’t noticed.